


Wishes are not made to come true, (just like how you are made to be alone)

by MatchaMochi



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alien AU, M/M, Magic AU, all the aus, and clark is just really confused and lonely, bruce is a werecat, christmas wish au, kind of, secret santa submission, seriously this guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMochi/pseuds/MatchaMochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does not hear the low whine of an animal in pain, too distracted is he from the upcoming chores of the day, does not see blue eyes flashing in the dark, does not feel the thought lingering through the shadows, like a voice, smooth as velvet and deep as the crater a hundred miles from the farmhouse. It says,</p><p>‘I hear you.’</p><p>(Superbat Secret Santa Submission 2015 to http://flippedchongdai.tumblr.com/ )</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes are not made to come true, (just like how you are made to be alone)

**Author's Note:**

> yeah yeah i know the title sucks, well i couldn't think of anything so damn you santa! This was originally a submission for the superbat secret santa 2015 but i tweaked it a bit, not noticeable its fine. anyway the prompt was:  
> \- Clark Kent adopts a kitten/cat that grows up to be Batman and fight crime beside Superman. (Magic AU? Alien AU? Christmas wish AU?)  
> and yeah i did all three, hope this is fine and happy new year! c: (soon anyway)

To be honest, the world when he was a child was a vague recollection of grass, sun, and farm animals that quietly tolerated his presence. Of course there were his parents, and school, and his ever expanding knowledge of his own indestructible power that was neither here nor there.

The fact is; the only thing that has ever stood out was these three occurrences:

One -The first time he flew, not forgetting the matter that he has also carried one Mrs. Kent along clutching his foot for dear life, but no one can blame him, he was only five.

Two -When he tries to fit in with the other kids and he remembers John Gregory frowning at him and saying, as if he was stating the weather, that he doesn’t _belong_ here. Clark stays in the barn for days; he refuses to go out, not even for his mother’s special apple pie.

And three,-The shooting star.

Admittedly, the last one was a little bit more life-changing than the rest.

-

It was very vivid.

Like a slow moving brushstroke across the deep dark blue of the sky, its colour a brilliant variance of blinding white to furious red. Its streaks upon streaks of flashing lights, falling down like tears across a canvas and he remembers his eyes widening in wonder, hands tight on the wood of his windowsill of his room. He remembers thinking, ‘ _they’re asleep,’_ because he can hear his parents steady heartbeat two floors under and, _‘I want to touch them!’_ to the stars before inhaling sharply and jumping out the window.

He floats quietly to the ground, his shallow breathing and the crickets the only sound accompanying him. There’s also the slight breeze of a hot night, rattling the wooden crevices and gaps of the house. The pounding in his head, the blood rushing in his ear, while not audible, was deafening, to the point that he almost doubled back, afraid that this might just be a very, very bad idea.

But he ploughs on, walking steadily to the distance, never knowing when he was going to stop but vaguely understanding that he won’t be here until daybreak. He has to milk the cows and help his father tow all the hays anyway.

He recognises the stars crying in the night to be meteorites; his mother once said that he was once one too, a gift from the heavens, a dying last wish from his dead planet. He hates it when she reminds him. It makes him feel alone, so terribly, terribly alone, sometimes he wishes he could fly up, and up through the clouds, through the shells of the earth his science teacher states as the atmosphere and to the universe beyond so he could maybe have a taste of what it is to ‘ _belong’_ , to find the remnants of his home and comfort.

But he also admits that the idea of leaving terrifies him, his parents whom he knows would never abandon him, he loves them too much to let them go. He wonders if it would be worth it and every time Mr. Kent smiles and pats his back or Mrs. Kent kisses his forehead and tells him to come home safely, he sighs and thinks to himself that he shouldn’t be feeling like this, feeling so alone.

So when the last star falls down and blinks out of existence he stops abruptly and closes his shaking hands together in a fist.

He thinks, _pleads,_ sorrowfully, hopefully,

‘ _I don’t want to be alone.’_

The star, as if hearing his call for help, flashes a brilliant blue before dissipating like the others.

Once the first sign of dawn lances itself through the brightening sky, Clark flies home, his heart content for once.

-

He does not hear the low whine of an animal in pain, too distracted is he from the upcoming chores of the day, does not see blue eyes flashing in the dark, does not feel the thought lingering through the shadows, like a voice, smooth as velvet and deep as the crater a hundred miles from the farmhouse. It says,

‘ _I hear you.’_

_-_

-

-

A year passes by, Clark Kent gains experiences, people he’s glad to call friends, and a busy life through middle school. He occupies it with projects, assignments and _books_ so many books that he feels guilty whenever he gets absorbed in the intricate words and worlds of his current novel to help his parents with the farm.

It’s a fine thing, he supposes. He doesn’t feel quite as alone as last year when he thought he’d suffocate at times and wishes he could curl up and disappear at others. It’s a fine thing indeed.

This, as things goes, immediately goes to a halt when he overestimates his super human strength and nearly breaks Mr. Kent’s arm in a fright. ‘Nearly’ didn’t really cut it though, he sees Mrs. Kent frowning at the bruises darkening on the man’s arm and Clark wishes the floor would swallow him whole. Mr. Kent waves it away as an accident and his wife reassures Clark that it wasn’t his fault but they sound like white noise and the only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and his vain attempt to breathe properly.

“ _Clark? Clark honey, are you alright?”_

 He storms out, heedless of his mother’s cries and father’s calls, and _yes_ , they are ‘father’ and ‘mother’ because he is their son and he understands that, he _does_ but it wasn’t true at all wasn’t it? He’s not their son and they’re not his parents, what kind of son would hurt their own parent? They are Mr. Kent and Mrs. Kent and he hates whenever he forgets, forgets that he never ever truly _belonged._

-

He doesn’t know where he’s heading. He runs and runs not knowing if he’s covered meters or miles, not caring. He stops to catch his breath in a wide plain of grass and stones. The sun was waning, afternoon ending, waiting for the beginnings of night. He takes shelter under a huge expanse of rocks and a certain kind of debris that reminds him of an abandoned monastery. The rocks roofed over his head, and he becomes glad of its presence once it started raining.

First, soft drizzles, before increasing rapidly becoming heavy. He sits down and stares at the darkness, hoping for nothing, hoping he knows what the hell he’s doing.

He could still hear them, however hard he tries not to. Even their anxious rapid heartbeats sounded like drums that pounded at his ears, begging for him to come back. He closes his eyes and leans back, shuddering in the feeling of wet, cold stone behind his back. He curls up, beneath the rain and the night sky, starts to venture into a light slumber. 

‘ _You’re being stupid Clark.’_

Strangely, he dreams of flashing blue eyes, and a deep scowl set on deathly pale skin. He thinks he should really remember the voice in his head but the only thing he registers is the absurdity of a naked little dark haired boy staring down at him as if _he_ was being ridiculous.

He blames it on stress and anxiety and falls into deeper sleep.

When he wakes up, he hears the leaves beside him rustle, and also a soft, quite, meow.

-

The next day, Clark Kent returns home, drenched and dirty with mud and rain. He gets grounded of course, for a week. But when he comes home, they hugged him like they thought he wasn’t going to come back and his mother never forgets to leave him some pie every other night. It’s enough.

 Also, mom gives him a puzzled look when he takes out a wriggling mass of dirty black fur and noisy whining from under his shirt. He places it carefully beside the plate of milk his mom poured for it and strokes its wet fur fondly. It pads to it and laps the milk quickly, purring when Clark petted it.

“Honey….”

“Yeah?” he looks at her expectantly.

She wants to say that he can’t keep him; it’s obvious that the cats’ wild, it’s not meant to be kept in a house. But when she sees the smile on his lips she pauses and thinks, ‘ _perhaps another time,’_ before smiling back at him,

“What are you going to call it?”

Clark beams at her, “Her name is Bella!”

The cat instantly starts hissing.

-

“Bruce? Hey come on, I didn’t really _noticed_ you were a tomcat-“

He takes a deep breath and slowly extends his hand out under the sofa, Clark can count at least twenty different scratches that he would have had if he wasn’t, well him, but really, whenever the cat tries to pierce through skin and fails, Clark swears he sees its face scowling at him before scratching him. Again.

“Okay, okay. I admit, it’s a pretty stupid mistake but even if I’m not _entirely_ human I can make mistakes too you know-“

Clark sees him bristle before slowly, slowly creeping out of the dark enclosed space of the sofa. It still has its ears tucked behind though, and he could see those bright blue eyes staring at him accusingly.

Clark smiles at him, the cat gives a low meow.

“Red snappers?” Clark presents a small dish to him, pushing it to him.

When Bruce starts pawing at his trousers for more, he looks at his mom triumphantly.

Mrs. Kent could only sigh at him, though she smiles after, and says to Clark that, yes, the cat can stay.

-

-

_Cerulean blue, or is it very deep azure?_

He can’t really tell. “Hey Bruce,” the cat nuzzles his palms, no doubt asking for more food, “Stop that- anyway, I wanted to call you Bella because I heard it means beautiful,” sometimes Clark likes imagining the other could actually understand him, nevertheless, the sceptical look he gets was quite impressive. “Don’t like it?”

He gets a hiss and Clark laughs when Bruce tries to gnaw his thumb.

“Huh,” he doesn’t know how he never noticed, (considering he didn’t know Bruce was a _boy_ , there are a lot of things he didn’t notice. Really, his father would’ve been disappointed in him; he would’ve thought he’d be an expert with animals by now since he has to take care of the cows too,), but Bruce was only just a kitten. Well, a might bigger, but only just.

Its night outside when Bruce follows him to his room, his nimble cat legs making way through the slit at his door and promptly owning the bed as his. He gives Clark a condescending look before pawing his pillow and curling up on it. A big furry black ball in the middle of his pillow.

They make do in the end, with a lot of ‘ _Sorry!’_ from Clark and yowling from Bruce, he’s just glad they didn’t wake his parents.

They sleep, Bruce’s tail flicking at his nose once in a while, (he thinks it’s intentional,).

Somewhere, in the middle of the night, when the cat’s constant purring nearly sets him to sleep, Clark sinks into a dream and thinks, ‘ _I won’t hurt you,’_

And just before dawn, when the sky was at its darkest, a sudden breeze makes his window rattle. Bruce slips off the bed. He stretches his gangly arms and legs with a groan and inhales fresh, sharp, country air. He leans down, confident that the boy does not hear anything since he was so content on ignoring things already, Clark won’t differentiate him from the many sounds outside, Bruce was quiet as a cat and he would be more so, especially now. He was surprised to find that he was taller than Clark; his growth rate increasing rapidly. He brushes a stray lock of hair from the boy’s face.

The kiss felt like feathers on his forehead, Clark mumbles words he can’t hear. Bruce says, “I know you won’t.” before he jumps off the window.

-

-

-

After that, Bruce becomes a part of the Kent family like he’d always meant to be. He doesn’t do much of course, Mr. Kent does the labour, Mrs. Kent takes care of the crops and animals, Clark helps the both of them out when he’s not busy with anything else and Bruce, well, Bruce sleeps.

He dozes after breakfast, naps at lunchtime (after his red snappers,), and slips back into slumber until dinner.

They don’t really mind, he doesn’t disturb them. In fact, his sudden presence sets a timer for them unknowingly. Mrs. Kent knows it’s time for breakfast when she hears soft pads pacing around the kitchen, she’d sigh, leans down at him and scratch under his jaw right _there._ Really, the way the woman pet him makes him melt and feels faintly orgasmic. He’d preen and she’ll say, “ _Looking beautiful as always darling,”_ which, well, considering the way she’s stroking him is a _very_ good start to the day. She’ll shrug on her apron and Bruce will stand by the counter, waiting for Clark to come bounding in for food.

At noon, Bruce sprawls outside, where Mr. Kent could always see him, near the barn, at the fence, sometimes even in his shoes, (he uses his old ones in turn, he just doesn’t have the heart to wake him up.). Mr. Kent works tirelessly, sweat dripping, and he handles calls and complaints calmly and steadily. When lunch comes, he spots the cat slinking away in the house and he tidies up before following him.

At night, Bruce is awake, often standing vigilantly by Clark’s desk or tangling around his legs, meowing in the hopes of an extra supper.

He uses his best piercing, accusing, stare at Clark and sometimes, when he’s lucky, Clark will sigh and potter around the kitchen for any sardines, muttering about, ‘ _stupid blue cat eyes…’_

Clark is use to this though, Bruce follows him _everywhere._ He’s there when he goes out for groceries, when he goes to meet his other friends. It’s a relief when the cat has a sudden sense of privacy for toilet breaks, (if the slight look of disgust was anything to go by).

But when high school starts, he finds he missed the soft meowing that usually accompanies the sight of deep flecks of blue staring at him.

-

Bruce doesn’t sleep at night. At night, he goes off with the extra blanket downstairs and stares at the house’s occupants while they sleep. He admits, it is quite a disturbing habit to have. After that though, he goes outside, tucking the blanket closer to his shoulders and marvels at the night sky. The moon, the stars, sometimes he wishes he could be up there too.

Bruce keeps on growing. Now, every time he steps downstairs it creaks more loudly, his voice gets deeper every time he tries to shush Clark back to sleep. He knows he couldn’t stay like this for long; he’d have to tell Clark soon.

And by the time Clark graduates, Bruce is a fully grown man.

-

-

-

“How _old_ is he?”

“About…. ten years,”

She stares at him, looks at Bruce and shakes her head slowly. The cat purrs at her when she strokes him, she smiles. “So this is a tough one huh,” she brings him to her lap, petting him. Clark cracks a smile at her when Bruce starts purring harder, curled up on her lap, “Honestly Smallville, never thought you were the cat type,” she kisses the top of Bruce heads lightly, he meows at her, “Little Bruce Kent,”

He shuffles about in the kitchen, taking out plates and cups to the table. When Lois had asked him if she could stay for dinner, he should have anticipated that she’ll know about Bruce. In truth, he had never let anyone in his apartment since he moved to Metropolis, (he didn’t even want to bring Bruce here with him but the piercing glare he gets from trying to extract Bruce from his trousers pretty much changed all that,).

It’s comforting though, having Bruce here. The one semblance of home from everything, the city, his new workplace, he’s just relieved Bruce is settling in quite nicely since the move too.

After that, Bruce stands by the counter, watching them eat and chat. She leaves his apartment with a pleased smile and a promise for morning coffee tomorrow before setting off.

Clark sighs as he hears her call for a taxi four storeys down from where he is. He sinks down at the sofa and grunts when Bruce jumps on his lap. He laughs quietly, “You like her right?” Bruce licks his paws, “Yeah, me too.”

It _is_ a wonder though. Wild cats lives to about thirteen to fourteen years and even he fibbed to Lois a bit about Bruce’s age, he knew the cat has been with him longer than most.

He looks at Bruce oddly, “Are you holding back on me about something?” the cat nuzzles his stomach. He blows a little cold air at him, Bruce gives him a hiss.

Sometimes he thinks that his superpowers are leaking out to Bruce so the cat will have unlimited immortality. “That’d be the day wont it?” he murmurs.

He turns in for the night, the stars covered by city lights, the usual orchestra of crickets replaced with the cacophony of cars and people. As usual, Bruce dominates the pillow and he sighs quietly beside him.

-

-

The moment Clark Kent becomes Superman, Bruce thinks, ‘ _Oh,’_ and ‘ _Damn it.’_

He thinks that because every time Clark comes back from helping some random stranger or saving Metropolis from exploding in on itself yet again, he begins to notice an unescapable pattern that no doubt leaves a lasting impression to the lifestyle of one Clark Kent.

It’s shit.

The man goes out superhero-ing, leaving his already shaky job in The Planet to _shambles_. He gets complains after complaints from his boss and co-workers that Bruce wonders how he’d cope with all of this in the first place, not putting being an undercover superhero in it too.

Clark returns to his apartment, ragged and tired and Bruce knows it’s not his body, (he’s fucking _superman-)_ , he feels it mentally. So he meows quietly, sits promptly on his face while Clark gives him a surprised laugh and purrs fiercely, thinking, ‘ _relax, relax, RELAX-‘_

They spend another dreamless night together; well that’s what Clark thinks anyway. Bruce walks around the apartment naked, (doesn’t really mind it, though sometimes it gets a little cold. Damn that man, more extra blankets would be nice,) and starts planning.

He _knows_ why the mental stress was piling up on Clark. The man was alone, when he fights crime, when he’s forced to refuse another date from Lois, when he receives one of the brutal verbal lashings from his boss, and no amount of purring could change that fact.

He has to know that he’s not alone. He has to have _someone_ by his side.

That night, Bruce stares out the window, contemplating about Metropolis, about revealing himself, though he knows it’s inevitable in the end. He spots the moon peeking at him at one of the skyscrapers of the city before sighing and going back to bed.

This time, he doesn’t curl up on the pillow.

-

It’s a crying shame really, Bruce hasn’t really thought of the true glorious wonder of how much Clark’s hipbone and the smooth expanse of his torso offers, but then again, cats doesn’t have any use of the sexy body of Superman. Being in a cats brain often merely consists of _fishfishfish, yes right THERE_ or _this mug hates me_ (he has a tendency of knocking fragile things to the ground. They offend him.)

But being lazy thankfully doesn’t mean that his midnight wanderings didn’t pay off. He is lithe, a little on the pale side, but his jet black hair puts that in contrast, also a fair amount of muscle too.

So really, he doesn’t understand at all when Clark wakes up to him lying on top and reacting to that by nearly _throwing him to the other side of the room._

 _“_ What the _fuck-“_

What the fuck indeed. He admits he could’ve break it to the man a little slower but hey, Bruce isn’t going to forget the face he makes anytime soon.

If we step back a little, the morning actually went like this:

Clark opens his eyes with a flutter, feeling something heavy on him, and him being in the state of mind that’s between asleep and full consciousness, concludes that the cat has slept on his chest. He brings a hand to smooth it over soft fur before a _‘?’_ pops up in his head because what he feels was most certainly _not_ fur.

He feels the thing shift, a wriggling mass of pale limbs and cold fingers before he is bombarded with bright blue _human_ eyes that has its forehead against his and it says,

“Hey there,”

Clark freaks out.

-

Here’s how things goes after the catastrophic event; after effectively pushing said naked mysterious man off the bed, he contemplates on the option of either a: calling the police, b: sleep again because this is clearly a dream, a man claiming to be your cat certainly calls for one, or c: interrogate the perpetrator himself.

“Hm, very kinky…”

Clark tightens the makeshift rope around the man’s wrist and grunts out, “Shut it,“ and so he has the man tied to his bed.

When he’s satisfied enough to be sure that the man won’t try to run away, he pulls out a chair facing it over the bed, sits on it, folding his arms and glares at him, “Right. Who the fuck are you, how the fuck did you get in,“ It’s disturbing that’s what it is, his super hearing would’ve caught on the lock that he checked wasn’t broken or the window that’s definitely rusty when he tries sliding it open. And Bruce is gone. “ _And where’s my cat?”_

The man tilts his head to the side, “Don’t you have work?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Lunch with Lois?”

“She’s busy-“ Clark stares at him in horror, “Have you been _stalking_ me?”

He shrugs, nods at him non-committedly, “Kinda. That shirt looks _ridiculous_ by the way, been trying to tell you. Thought that coffee incident was enough but _no_ , you still want to wear that damn shirt even with coffee stains on it.”

“You-“Clark pauses. Then says slowly, as if talking to a child, “My cat did that.”

Bruce grins, “Yes.” And with a sudden loud exhale, he shifts into a cat.

Clark swears for the second time that morning; the cat blinks slowly at him, and waits for it to really sink in.

-

Clark has, for a time, thought of putting a collar at Bruce. That ended up in Bruce trying to claw his face off and seeing that it had failed stalked away for days only to return when he sees Clark morosely pathetic face.

He’s glad for it, he supposed. This time though, this time he’s not quite sure it stands as an advantage.

“Do- do that again.”

“Do you think this is a _circus_ Clark?”

“But you could be any cat in the street! How am I sure that you’re-“

“ _Damn it Clark-“_

He has _some_ sense after that, gratefully. When Bruce’s blue eyes had blinked, he sees it turn into slits, he sees him _shrink,_ sees fur growing all over, and sees his tail slinking out, his ears flicking back and forth on his head and then his cat is staring at him from on top of the bed.

It’s quite bizarre when he morphs back into a man, like watching a video on rewind.

“You’re telling me, that you’ve been walking around the house naked every night?”

Bruce raises his eyebrows, picking on the edges of the bathrobe Clark had thrown at him, “I can be really quiet you know,” he sniffs, “You don’t have any extra blankets Clark,”

Clark stares at him.

He vaguely feels his vision blurring around the edges. Bruce’s eyes are as blue as ever. His hair is the colour of midnight and he has no doubts that if he has his hands on it it’d be just as soft as his fur. He moves gracefully, not leaving anything out of place, his every movement a quiet, gentle, precision. His skin is pale but smooth, like snow if he’s being really poetic. Bruce is beautiful, in every way, just like the time he first found him.

Bruce is also a cat that is actually a human and the memories of him talking to Bruce alone comes rushing back because he had never really thought the cat could _understand_ him.

“This is not normal.”

Bruce bursts out in laughter, scoffs, “ _Normal?_ Clark, you’re an alien masquerading as a superhero and I’m a magical cat that can turn into a human, you’re worried about being _normal?”_

There’s a long awkward silence after that. He tries to fill it up, but fails on finding any words to say. So Bruce starts first,

“I was your wish.”

“What.”

Clark stares blankly at him, Bruce sighs.

“Do you remember the meteor incident when you were a kid?”

“…yes.”

“It was at Christmas night.”

“Uh.” What that has to do with anything Clark doesn’t know but he remembers, remembers flashing blue lights and the pale puffs of air he lets out when he stares at them, also recalls his dad smiling at him from under the tree they were lucky to have. His mom was baking gingerbread  men with angel wings because she had a vague idea that Clark still feels guilty from dragging her out into the sky (she’s not wrong,).

Clark clears his throat. He has to be practical about this, “So, are you an alien, a magical being, or a manifestation of my Christmas wish?”

Bruce shrugs. He had started sprawling when Clark had his internal meltdown going on and was staring at the window beside the bed. He has his head on his hands, the bathrobe sliding off one of his shoulders.

“Dunno, all three?” He stretches his legs. Clark blinks and tries to forget the times where he had kissed/nuzzled/sneezed at Bruce’s furry belly, also, his legs has no right at all to be domineering his thoughts. They weren’t _that_ erotic. Maybe.

Bruce smirks, eyes still glued to the window. “Like what you see?”

Clark couldn’t help looking away, a light red dusting his cheeks.

They stay like that, Bruce lounging on the bed, Clark on the chair, staring at nothing, his face blank, looking horribly lost. The light outside shines, illuminating the blues in Bruce’s eyes, the stark expanse of his room. Morning traffic, vendors shouting, people talking flows through, and life goes on. Even if he hopes it would stop, just for one second. So he could take a quick break, to process this, everything. He lets out a shaky breath,

“Why are you _here_ Bruce?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“So you won’t be alone idiot.”

-

-

-

Surprisingly, it didn’t really take that long to sink in. Clark builds a new list for the new occupant, bedding arrangements for one, though Bruce scoffs at him for that, giving him a sly smile after mentioning that they have been practically sleeping together his whole life.

Clothes also, and more food, (‘ _Actually I’ve always wanted to try caviar-‘ ‘Shut it-‘)_.

When Bruce had come out wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans he had stopped at the stairs down the apartment. Had looked up at the spires of buildings and rows of cars, he had leaned down near Clark after they had lunch, (Curry, and Clark grins when Bruce asks for another serving,) murmurs, “Thank you, for this.” and had pecked his cheek like it was normal.

Normal.

When they get back to the apartment, Bruce slips off his clothing and leaves them near the laundry basket. By the time Clark walks in his room, the cat is dozing at his windowsill.

Clark thinks about the meaning of ‘normal’ and finds that if one were to do it several times it’ll be okay, safe, and _normal_.

Bruce had always licked his cheek when he’s begging for a second dinner.

That night, Clark sleeps on the couch, and dreams of glowing blue eyes staring right at him.

-

-

Nothing really changed.

-was what Clark would have hoped but he needs time to get used to another person wandering around his apartment, he’s not uncomfortable, far from it. He’s _too_ comfortable.

Bruce splays himself around Clark, hands feeling down his arms to ask for something, feet on his lap when they’re watching TV. It’s scary how Clark doesn’t bat an eye on it at all. Clark gets used to it though, Bruce switches from cat to human form randomly during the day, and he could see that he’s at least happy about it if the way he’s been grinning has something to say.

They talk, about everything. His powers, his job, his other superhero job and Bruce listens, nodding away while playing angry birds on his phone or padding to his lap and staring at him quietly. Sometimes he gives his opinion, (grunting it out or hissing at parts, mostly about his boss), but most of all Clark feels like this is just the well-needed respite he’s been waiting for ever since Metropolis and Superman.

Unfortunately (except for Bruce,), the bedding arrangement never made it through. Some nights he stays awake with Bruce, walking along through the quiet streets of Metropolis while she sleeps, or in front of the TV watching crime shows Bruce seems addicted to so much. Others, he lets the cat burrow in the shared blanket, (never got around to buying an extra, but Bruce doesn’t mind, he likes to wear Clarks old shirts instead.) and in the morning he’ll either find him padding around the kitchen pawing at the refrigerator or they’ll end up curling around each other, his arms on the others waist, while he feels the slow breathing from Bruce at his neck.

It shouldn’t feel so right, but Bruce seems to take it in stride so he follows suit.

Clark doesn’t question it, even when the sudden urge to kiss his lips arises, however soft they seem to look like from afar.

-

-

Bruce becomes more prominent in his life, and really, he should’ve seen it coming when he comes strolling in The Planet in an excuse to catch him in for lunch.

Lois stares at him curiously in the elevator.

He smiles at her, so she replies with another, though a little reluctantly, “I’m Lois, Clark’s co-worker, you are..?”

He grins lasciviously at her, “I’m his _pet. “_

Her eyes widens and she gapes at Clarks horrified expression, “ _Wow_ Smallville, never thought you’d-“

“A joke!” he interrupts her immediately, “It was just a joke.”

“Uhuh…” she waves them away when they arrive at the last floor. Bruce snickers from behind him.

“That was _really_ unnecessary,”

“Ever read fifty shades of grey?”

He glares as Bruce cackles in laughter.

-

-

It strikes him when he sees Bruce crooning over a female tabby cat, mouth tilted in a fond smile as he says, “Maybe next time my lady.”

They were walking back home, taking a detour to the grocery shop because try as he might he could never stop Bruce from finishing all the milk in one day. He smiles at the cashier as she hands him the receipt and as he walks out, Bruce is squatting down fawning over the cat making little baby sounds.

The snow was nearly covering the whole sidewalk, Clark reminds himself to get a new coat for Bruce, maybe his fathers.

But the thought that came up when he watches Bruce cuddling up to the other cat was,

“What do you do when I’m working?”

Bruce pauses, faces up and gives him an odd look, “Sleep.”

“Don’t you get bored?”

He blinks at Clark, “Sometimes I chase the ladies in town,” he kisses the cats ears, she meows at him, “but they don’t seem really interested. Better than at your farm though, no other cats. At all.”

He shrugs, “It gets lonely. Sometimes.”

There’s a long silence, before Bruce abruptly stands up and smirks at him, “What about her though?” he tilts his head to the tabby cat padding away, “Jealous?”

“You wish.”

The walk back is silent, but Bruce smiles at him when he produces a new blanket from under the bed so he thinks it might not be that bad.

-

Clark doesn’t know but he wonders about his existence whenever he gets too much ample time. Which is a lot. He’ll wander everywhere, as a cat or human, staring blankly at the sky and the people, just wondering, why he’s really here. He stares at a child, cheeks red from the cold air as she laughs along with her parents who has their hands link together with hers. He looks at a cat, tending to her kittens as she licks them, ignoring their mewling protests, one by one.

He wonders: ‘ _If I had a mother and a father what would they be like? Would we be happy? Would I do everything for them?’_

He doesn’t smile, pulls his jacket closer and broods for the rest of the day.

But when he hears Clarks voice echoing from the entrance, his face looking at him with concern as he asks, ‘What’s wrong?’, he remembers why, and he is anchored back to reality as if brought back to life by the presence of Clark alone.

He mutters,

“Nothing.”

-

-

Clark gets promoted when the articles he writes about the hero Metropolis needs, the cleaners, the teachers, the council members and lastly, Superman. He’s proud of it and for a moment, was sure that this was going to be the bottom line, the end all. He was definitely going to be fired.

 He doesn’t expect the big feedback, the slight nod from his boss or the pay check left on his table. It’s a lot, far higher than what he normally gets so he goes home with high spirits.

He resists from skipping back to his apartment, excited to tell Bruce about the raise and thinking of places they could go out to, making full use of the money. When he arrives though, Bruce is nowhere to be found.

He sighs and goes on to fix them dinner, spaghetti this time, because Bruce hates it.

By the time he sets the table and hears the door shut, he instantly regrets cooking them when Bruce walks in quietly, face pale and eyes wary.

“Bruce.” He raises an eyebrow, “Where you’ve been?”

His hands are shaking, clothes damp from the snow outside, it’s early December. Clark knows that isn’t the reason why his fingers are trembling like that. When he replies, his voice is cold, eyes flashing pale blue for a moment,

“The pet shop.”

And no more words are said after that.

-

Tomorrow was a Saturday so he and Bruce go out to a part of the town he rarely visits. They were walking out of the coffee shop making small talk as they strolled past several shops beside the sidewalk.

Clark was going to wave them a taxi when Bruce freezes from beside him and stares at a glass window from one of the shops. He could hear dogs barking.

He guesses this was the pet shop Bruce said yesterday, (thought he doesn’t mentioned anything else about it,) and to be honest he doesn’t really see anything wrong about it. Clark was expecting a dilapidated building overrun with a rat or roach infestation, or animals that had looked mangy and emaciated.

This was the exact opposite, its floors and windows shiny with constant care, its customers and animals well-off from what he could see. It wasn’t that bad.

Bruce walks in quietly without a word so he hesitates for a moment before following him in. He stops by a room at the back, rooted with plain white walls. There’s a glass that goes between it, showing the inside. He pauses for a moment before recognising the black-brown lump stuck on one of the edges of the wall at the far back, behind the makeshift branches and metal wires.

“It’s a bat.”

Bruce nods, “That’s right.”

They stand silent for a few moments before he speaks up again,

“They live about twenty-five years,” there’s a huge pause in which he could hear Bruce’s heartbeat speeding up a little, “Bats kept as pets rarely lives over a year.”

He thinks he understands, a little. For Bruce who always had the opportunity to choose if he wanted to stay or leave, it’s frustrating to see a creature who doesn’t understand nor have a way out, its doom as obvious as the state of its captivity. Bruce’s anger is palpable, he feels it simmering at the surface so when he brushes past Clark to go out, Clark lets out a relieved breath.

The next day, he stares at his extra pay check and remembers beady eyes shining in the dark from a corner of a wall.

He comes back to the shop, buys the bat and stores it in a cage. Bruce’s face hardens when he sees Clark come home with it but softens when Clark says that he’d contact the bat sanctuary and they’ll be taking the bat back by tomorrow.

“We just have to keep him company for a while and make sure it’s comfortable,” he takes out a couple of fruits from the fridge, smiling a little when he hears Bruce clothes rustle and a soft curious meow,  “They said I could name it,” he shrugs, cutting the watermelons into tiny pieces, “Since I kind of adopted it.” He comes back to the cage, putting a plate of mixed fruits and water carefully at the edge so as not to scare the bat away, “I was thinking of naming it Ben, what do you think?”

Bruce flicks his tail to the side, stares at the bat again, and leaves the counter to head for the sofa in the living room.

That’s a yes then.

-

-

-

It’s near Christmas when one of Lex’s notorious plans makes another downturn but unfortunately, leaves Clark with a gash as deep as a toothpick by the effects of a kryptonite laser slashing through his legs that forces him to limp all the way to the apartment.

Bruce is mad. Not surprising of course, but he still flinches at the furious glare he throws at Clark.

“ _What the fuck happened?”_

“Bruce-“

“Sit down.”

He does, carefully sinking down at the sofa with a pained groan. Bruce is glaring at him, standing at the doorway of the living room, hands folded. There’s a moment of silence, before he walks to the kitchen, hands banging open cupboards and drawers for the first aid kit. He comes back, still with a stormy expression and leans down, bandaging the bleeding gash. He doesn’t care for the ruined trousers, tears right through it with a kitchen knife and shooting glares at Clark as he disinfect the wound. None too gently mind, Clark hisses. He sighs,

“It’s not as bad as it looks,”

“Bullshit.”

He wraps the bandage tightly; Clark flinches when it the red stain immediately blooms at the white cloth. Then Bruce goes back in the kitchen, and Clark watches him, trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

He comes back, hands folded, eyes narrowed down at him, hips leaning at the kitchen table overlooking the living room and the sofa where Clark was.

“So.”

“Look,” this is ridiculous, it’s not as if Bruce doesn’t know there were risks to be made when he’s _Superman_ , “I know you’re angry I got hurt. I was careless alright? I thought all the Kryptonite were gone-“

“This is _Luthor_ you’re talking about right?”

“Yes. I was stupid. That man has an uncountable amount of kryptonite at his disposal. I should have known. Are we done-“

A plate shatters to the ground. He stares at the shards sliding at the floor, one of it arriving at his feet.

 Oh.

“ _Done?”_

Uh.

“Clark you come in here limping and bleeding on the carpet,” it wasn’t that much blood. Well he’s sure his Superman suit was torn and now he has pants that are apparently red now, but it wasn’t _that_ much, “and you expect me to what? Lay off?”

Yes? He doesn’t know, he never thought Bruce would be this angry honestly-

“Clark Kent you listen to me and you listen close,” suddenly Bruce is directly in front of him, leaning down, nose inches away from his face, his voice is tight and demanding as he continues, “you think I’m going to let this slide? When you get hurt out there and I don’t even fucking know a single thing about it? No. Because you know what? _I’m_ the only one who _knows you_. I know you, superhero, reporter, farm boy, _no one else knows_. And even if they do they won’t care, they just want _Superman_. The people out there? They don’t own you. Here, I do. Metropolis, Smallville, right _here_ , I _own_ you Clark. You’re _mine.”_

And it’s amazing. It’s amazing because Clark remembers the way Bruce changes his face effortlessly every time they come out of the apartment, all easy smiles and slick grins. But when they’re alone his face is stoic, smiling at times, and only grinning when he’s done anything particularly evil. His anger is low key all the time and Clark guesses it’s faced at the universe in general for making him a were-cat or whatever he is. But now? Now it’s all blazing righteous anger that makes his bangs fall to his forehead and lights up the fierce blues in his eyes. It’s _fucking hot._

So when Bruce crashes his mouth against his, he gives a surprised grunt before pushing right back, open mouthed and moaning as Bruce bites his lower lip. Bruce cradles his head, and he tilts it a little so when he plunges in again Clark gives out a low groan in pleasure. They don’t stop, the slick slide of tongues and soft lips making him heady with lust and _want._ He’s vaguely aware of him being pushed back on the couch, his clothes being torn open by insistent hands, him doing the same. They kiss and kiss, hands exploring the smooth back of Bruce’s skin and equally pleasing bottom. When he squeezes it Bruce moans right into his mouth, panting but leaving a trail of kisses down his neck.

It’s hot and unsteady, he revels in it, remembering every patch of skin that makes Bruce shiver, makes him moan, makes him beg for _more._ Bruce plunges himself to him, taking in Clarks heaving body and stuttered breath. When they come, their combined voices reverberate through the dark apartment.

Bruce, tired and spent, lowers down to meet Clark, careful of the injured leg. They lay there, panting, slicked with sweat and other unmentionables. Clark speaks out first,

“Um,”

“Shhhh,”

“….?”

He kisses Clark, soft and chaste,

“I’m praying.”

“What.”

“Thanking Jesus for your marvellous cock-“

“ _Bruce-“_

He laughs and they cuddle after that.

And.

And Clark thinks that he wants to say ‘Thank you.’ because now, he’s not alone. Now, he has Bruce. 

He sleeps with Bruce’s head tucked under his chin and wishes that this moment; Them tangled up like this, the soft breathing of Bruce at his neck, his warm skin on his, the dark room floodlit by the busy life of Metropolis outside, he wishes that it’d never end.

He kisses the top of Bruce’s head softly, and they sleep.

-

(Extra!)

“I was serious when I said you won’t be alone Clark.”

“Yes. I’m not, I got you here.”

“Not when you’re Superman.”

“You want to…join?”

“Yes.”

“As what?”

“….do you remember Ben?”

“Don’t tell me-“

“That’s right,”

“Bruce-“

“ _BATMA-“_

- _fin-_

_and_

_Merry Christmas!_

**Author's Note:**

> ....comment?


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